The snow had fallen gently through the night, cloaking the peaks of the sect in a hush of white. Morning light broke through clouds like gauze, casting a cold glow over the stone paths and curling rooftops. It was time to return.
Outside the inn, Hua Ling stood tall in his pale robes, the wind tugging at the hem like an impatient child. Lingque stood beside him, arms crossed against the cold, her expression twisted with concern.
"Still no sign of him," she muttered, eyes scanning the road that remained empty.
Hua Ling said nothing. His breath fogged before him, vanishing as swiftly as the patience in his chest.
Lingque's gaze flicked to him. "He didn't return to his room last night. Out all day yesterday. What is he even doing?"
Hua Ling's lashes lowered, thick and still as frost-laced pine needles. He had noticed, of course. He had noticed the careful way Xinyu looked through him instead of at him. The deliberate, practiced avoidance of shared space, shared breath. The apology that never came. The warmth that had been there—if only for a moment—gone without a word.
He didn't speak. Guilt stirred, unbidden. Though he could not name it, it weighed heavy in his chest.
Mochen and Chi Ruyan arrived at last, but Xinyu was nowhere to be seen.
Lingque pursed her lips. "I'll find him."
She wandered the surrounding streets, asking passersby if they'd seen a delicate-looking cultivator in robes of white and blue. One vendor laughed. "Oh, that pretty young man? He drank the whole night with the girls in the winehouse. He was so charming, but clearly heartbroken." She giggled. "Too bad he's in love with someone already."
Lingque flushed in embarrassment.
But the words did not miss Hua Ling's ears. His expression chilled like steel plunged into ice. He turned on his heel, robes fluttering in the breeze. "I'm leaving first," he said.
"Your highness—wait—" Lingque called after him, but he did not turn back.
Chi Ruyan, ever watchful, followed in silence.
Mochen remained, frowning, his arms folded as he waited.
Eventually, Lingque found Xinyu in a quiet alley, curled up like a discarded doll beneath a thin layer of snow, his hair tousled, his breath shallow with sleep and wine.
She kicked him—once, then again. "Get up, you disgrace."
Xinyu groaned and stirred. "Dianxia…"
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright white sky—only to find Lingque's furious face.
She clicked her tongue. "Right after the mission, and you go back to drinking? Do you even care about your responsibilities? Your highness left already. You offended him."
Xinyu rubbed his head. "That bad?"
"Worse."
He sighed. Of course, he'd avoided Hua Ling—avoided the memory of that closeness, the way their breaths had tangled in the dark, the soft heat of his body draped over him. It had shaken him, undone him. He needed space to breathe, to forget. And instead, he'd made it worse.
He stood, snow sticking to his robes, and followed Lingque back to Mochen, who offered no words—only a long glance and a silent nod.
The next day, the snow deepened. It fell in wide, languid flakes, covering the mountain like a blanket of white silk. Lunar New Year was only a week away, and even the stern stone paths seemed to smile beneath the soft hush.
Lu Rou Rou, bundled in a rabbit-fur cloak, ran through the courtyard, laughing as she flung a ball of snow at Lingque.
Lingque flinched and scowled. "Are you five?"
Lu Rou Rou only giggled and skipped away.
At the gates, a party arrived—Lan Xueyao, Shen Yao, and Yan Zheng returned from their own mission. Their figures cut through the white with the elegance of ink on rice paper.
Lu Rou Rou lit up like a firework. "Jiejie!"
Lan Xueyao caught her in a hug. "Still running around like a wild thing, I see."
Rou Rou grinned. "Of course!"
She dashed toward Shen Yao and Yan Zheng, clinging to Shen Yao's sleeve. "You're back! I missed you both."
Shen Yao, bundled against the cold, flicked her forehead with his fan. "Did you miss us, or the gifts we always bring?"
Yan Zheng chuckled and ruffled her hair.
"She missed us. Probably."
After a few greetings and teasing words, Shen Yao spotted Lingque nearby. His brows lifted. "That means… Xinyu's back too?"
Lingque nodded. "Back, but not quite present."
Shen Yao sighed, already heading toward the training grounds.
At the same time, in Shizun's pavilion, Yan Zheng and Shen Yao paid their respects. The master smiled gently at them. "You're all safe. That is enough. Xinyu completed his task with excellence. Be patient with him."
They left quietly, snow crunching beneath their boots. As they rounded the bend of the stone path, they stopped.
There, seated on a bare rock, was Xinyu.
He knelt in the snow, eyes closed, posture straight. Snow gathered in his hair, melted on his lashes. He looked ethereal, untouchable—a spirit half-turned to frost.
"What is he doing?" Shen Yao muttered. "He'll freeze to death."
Yan Zheng smiled faintly. "He's growing."
"Growing?" Shen Yao scoffed. "He's going to catch a cold."
Still, there was no real venom in his voice.
Xinyu opened his eyes and rose. He walked to them with snow crunching softly beneath his boots. "Shixiong. I missed you."
Shen Yao turned his head away with a huff. "Took you long enough."
Xinyu reached out, nudging him gently. "Come on, I'm sorry."
"Hmph." Shen Yao flicked his fan closed and smacked Xinyu's head lightly. "Stupid. I hate you."
Xinyu winced and laughed.
Some things never changed.
Meanwhile, in Hua Ling's pavilion, warmth swelled from braziers and scented coals, perfumed with dried plum and cedar. Yet Hua Ling felt no warmth at all.
He sat at his table, face calm, eyes stormy. Chi Ruyan leaned on the opposite end, resting her chin in her hands. "Your highness, something's clearly bothering you."
He did not reply.
She tilted her head. "What are you thinking about?"
Silence.
Moments passed before Qingzi entered, bowing with impeccable grace. "Your highness. Letters from the capital."
Hua Ling took them without expression. One from his father—brief, distant, composed. Another from his mother.
He opened hers gently. Her calligraphy curved in soft, loving strokes.
A-Ling, how are you? I miss you dearly. Be safe. Come home soon. Take care of Chi Ruyan, too. —With love, Mother.
His expression shifted—just a little. The edges softened. His hand lingered on the parchment.
After a moment, he rose and left the room, the letter still in his hand.
Chi Ruyan watched him go, her lips quirking. "At least mother-in-law loves me."
Snow swirled outside the pavilion, soft as memory. Within Hua Ling's heart, a colder snow still fell—drifting endlessly, with no sign of spring.